


Without Wings, But Burning Anyway

by thought



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: D/s themes, F/F, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:06:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2331212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Carolina needs an anchor.<br/>...also, it's York's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Wings, But Burning Anyway

It's York's fault.

Well, ok, it's vodka's fault, but York's been at the top of the leaderboard for the past two days and he's trying to grow a beard again, so Carolina's blaming him for everything by default. But it's York who suggests poker, and York who invites their pilot to join them, and York who spends the entire fucking evening giving Carolina significant glances every time her eyes wander to said pilot's hair. Or biceps. Or tattoos. 

It's also York, upon finding himself pressed up between the wall on the far side of the rec room and Carolina's warning glare, who goes automatically heavy-lidded and loose-limbed, head tipping back in unconscious invitation. Behind them Wyoming's refereeing a twin fight that's probably going to escalate to violence if she doesn't handle it, so she takes the moment of semi-privacy to press a palm into the vulnerable place just under his collarbone beside his shoulder, holding him there against the wall.

"Stop," she tells him firmly, "or you'll be going to bed alone for the foreseeable future."

He grins, already affectionate and open and trusting. "I'm just trying to help."

"Don't," she says, shaking her head fondly but not letting up on the pressure of her hand. "Nobody needs any helping here, York."

"I picked up the rope on our last leave," he says evenly.

From behind them, 479er coughs. Carolina sucks in a sharp breath, but is careful to gentle her hold on York in increments, only turning to look over her shoulder once she's just got a few fingertips stroking his shoulder and his eyes have regained a bit of focus.

"Don't let me interrupt," the pilot says, holding up her hands and smirking. "I just happened to overhear the wrong part of that conversation."

"Or the right one," York chirps. Carolina elbows him hard in the solar plexus.

"It's fine," she says, keeping her voice cool and unaffected. She meets Four Seven's gaze, daring her to make something of it. She doesn't say a thing. She also doesn't break eye contact. It hits awkward about three minutes in. York is getting twitchy beside her. Finally, he waves a hand between them. Four Seven snickers and swats at his hand like a cat.

"Come on," she says. "I think North's going to break that bottle over his sister's head."

Later, saying goodnight in front of their doors because they're both too drunk and too tired to actually follow through on anything, York bumps his forehead against hers and in a little sing-song hums, "You've got a cruuuush."

Carolina pushes him back with a hand on his face. "Go to bed before I throw you out an airlock."

"Rude," he grins, but he goes. Carolina falls asleep quickly and dreams about sitting under the apple tree at her childhood home with York’s' head in her lap, and then she dreams that her father cuts down the tree and keeps cutting until the entire planet is gone and she's left hanging alone in space, spinning in aimless circles and watching stars flash by. It's oddly peaceful, but she wakes up shaking.

She's got a training match against North in the morning which leaves her back at the top of the board and North in Recovery. They're all still learning how to pull their punches in this new armour, and as much as Carolina values professionalism, she is still having a hard time warming up to the twins. The mission that afternoon is easy, and she finds herself pacing the Pelican on the flight back to the MoI. South and Wyoming are debating music, and York's slumped with an exhaustion that he should not, by rights, be harbouring in the back. Carolina passes from cockpit to passenger section, tosses an opinion here and there into the music debate (they're both wrong and it's terrible), has to restrain herself from poking at buttons simply to find out what they do. She's restless, not suicidal. On her fifth pass through the cockpit Four Seven looks up from the controls.

"Would you sit the fuck down?" she snaps. "You're giving me whiplash."

"You haven't moved in the last ten minutes," Carolina retorts. She does not sit down.

"It's a saying."

"It's inaccurate. Don't whine."

"Hey York," the pilot calls back. York's head jerks up like a startled cat. "I might have to borrow some of that rope you were talking about last night."

In fairness, Carolina should ignore the jab-- it's harmless, not the worst thing any of them have said by miles. Alternatively, a vaguely threatening and/or witty comeback would do nicely. She should not find herself stuck for words and absently wandering her way into the gunner's seat, feeling suddenly flushed and glad of her helmet's protection.

"Oh!" York says, out of nowhere. "That's what I was missing!"

"They don't keep you around for your brains," Four Seven responds smugly. Then, to Carolina, "Thank you, Jesus. Now stay there."

Carolina stays.

That's the same week Carolina starts using her speed mod. At first it's an emergency and she's got a line back to Command. And then it's not an emergency, and she's got a line back to Command. And then Carolina realizes that it's entirely possible to use one's armour mod in the field without an AI if you actually know what you're doing. She trains with it whenever she's not on mission or sleeping for three weeks straight. The Director goes from furious to darkly predicting her death by hubris and finally to grudging admiration. York no longer appears at the top of the leaderboard. Carolina's metabolism starts to change, and she winds up going to medical after the third time she almost passed out in the middle of brushing her teeth or filling out a report. They give her protein and caloric boosts in the form of pre-packaged bars that taste like chemically-altered dust. Once she gets everything figured out, it's not unlike the feeling she used to get in high school with the steady influx of caffeine and uppers and success. She rides the high for a couple weeks of perfect missions and higher and higher scores in training and deep, dreamless sleep as soon as she closes her eyes.

The third week, the Director calls off a mission while they’re halfway through. Carolina and South are in the midst of destroying a roomful of poorly trained but heavily armed Insurrectionists when the Director’s voice comes over comms telling them to pull out immediately. South swears creatively and violently all the way back to the Pelican. Carolina is frustrated, too, but she keeps professional about it on the outside. She sits in the gunner's seat, which has become her unofficial place over the last month, and tries not to shake out of her skin. The adrenaline in her bloodstream goes stale and jittery, her body still pumping fight or flight hormones hard and fast, her muscles knotting with the effort of remaining still.

"You ok?" Four Seven asks once they've reached the MoI and South has stormed away. Carolina breathes in carefully, lets it out.

"I'm fine," she says shortly, and goes to curl up on her bed and shake through the aftershocks in private. It takes two hours, and she's exhausted and dehydrated afterwards. She wonders if this is what York feels like all the time with the coffee and the insomnia. She ruffles his hair when she passes him at breakfast the next morning, and puts an extra slice of toast on his plate.

The second time isn't as bad. The second time, the mission is an unexpectedly easy success, and Carolina's running on the high of winning and the comfort of having a team that works well together and the determination not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She practically bounces onto the Pelican, bumps her shoulder against York’s' and wraps a hand loosely around his wrist when he turns to look at her. He bumps back, leans against her a bit. He twists his wrist so they're holding hands because he's a fucking dork, and swings their hands back and forth.

"I have a plan," he says.

"So do I," she says, impatient.

York continues like she hasn't said anything, jerking his head toward North. "We're going to be friends," he says.

"I thought you were already?"

He shakes his head. "Nah, like. Real friends. Like. I want a friendship bracelet by Tuesday. I have a goal. It's going to happen."

"It's important to have goals," she agrees. "I had goals once. Dreams. Hopes. Spoilers, they all involved you on your knees."

He breathes out, hard, and sways a bit on his feet. "Don't distract me from the mission. I made a chart. It has stickers on it. And it's colour coded."

"No glitter?"

"I ran out after your birthday card."

"I hope you ran out of duct tape, too."

"Oh hey," he says. "Speaking of. Well, tangentially. Because--"

"I don't care," she says quickly. "Speaking of."

"You should let Four Seven fuck you."

She coughs. "Excuse me?"

"She really wants to tie you up," he says. "Like, really. I was on a solo mission last week and we basically spent the ride back talking about you."

"York," she says warningly, straightening up and returning her hold to his wrist so she can squeeze down.

"Nothing bad," he says hurriedly. "Sorry. She just. She's worried about you and also she wants to take you apart. It's cute."

"You would think that," she mutters, but there is still that vibrating, restless thing caught between her bones and her skin and each breath feels like a burst of energy filling her lungs and spreading out up her arms and down her legs. She drops York’s' wrist, pats his arm. "We're talking about appropriate conversations to have about your CO at some point," she tells him firmly.

"Um," he says. "I could point out all the ways that that doesn't apply here, but I'll take it in the spirit it was intended and say that I am sorry and I am also a little scared of that conversation."

"Good," she says. "Go make a friend."

"Have good sex," he says cheerfully, and strides briskly over to stand in front of North, who has taken off his helmet and looks a little alarmed at York’s sudden approach.

Carolina goes up to the cockpit. She does not sit down. It's not even a deliberate choice, really-- she's at a point still where the idea of staying still for the flight back would probably leave her in the same jittery, sick ball of misery that it did the last time. But it's certainly convenient. She paces a bit, focuses on working herself down slow and even like the doctors have taught her. Four Seven sighs dramatically about halfway back to the MoI.

"I thought we'd settled this?" she says. "When we're in the air you sit your ass down."

Carolina opens her mouth and what comes out is, "We're technically not in the air," which she hurriedly follows up with, "Also, if you want me to sit down why don't you make me?" and then, "Motherfucker. Stop being inaccurate so I can proposition you properly."

Four Seven laughs for a solid minute, doubled up over the controls. Carolina glares ineffectually through her helmet. "A for effort," she says once she's finished laughing. "As in acceptable. No wonder York fell into your bed if those are the sort of lines you use."

"We can just not do this," Carolina says warningly.

"You're cute. Sit down."

"If you want me to stay still by the time we get back that's really not a great idea," Carolina says honestly. Four Seven actually looks at her, head tilting to the side thoughtfully.

"Ok," she says, and there's something more serious, more gentle in her tone. "You do what you gotta do."

Once they've docked, everyone else piles off the Pelican in a clatter of boisterous enthusiasm (excepting North, who is still looking alarmed). Carolina hangs around the cockpit watching Four Seven run post-flight checks. She finds herself falling into parade rest automatically. When the pilot notices she huffs a soft breath of laughter and comes over to stand in front of Carolina, running hands over the plates of her armoured shoulders and arms.

"Calm down," she says. "I know you're a good soldier. That's not what I'm looking for."

"What are you looking for?" Carolina asks. Intentions and boundaries are important.

"Was gonna ask you the same thing," she says, pulling Carolina's hands carefully apart and guiding her arms down to her sides. "I like you. You're amusing and you're competent and you're hot. That being said, if you wanna keep this just to sex I still think it'd be fun and probably good for you."

Carolina exhales, works the tension out of her shoulders and spine. She's taller than the other woman, but she somehow feels off-balance, like the touch at her forearms is the only thing anchoring her to the ground. "We should," she says. "Have sex. And then we can go from there."

"Wow. Can really see why they trust you to make the big decisions in the field," Four Seven snarks, but there's no malice behind it. Carolina's getting better at recognizing that, lately.

"Hey, whenever you wanna suit up and join us down there you just let me know."

Four Seven has removed her own helmet, non-regulation navy blue hair a mess of flattened spikes over the warm brown of her face. There's a smear of oil above her left eyebrow. She reaches up to pop the seals on Carolina's helmet, setting it aside on the pilot's chair and brushing the hair that's fallen out of her ponytail away from her face. Carolina twitches at the touch. Four Seven frowns.

"You need to go run some laps before we do this?" She’s not joking. Carolina considers.

"I'm fine. Let's just. Get out of the ship. It's sort of claustrophobic."

"She didn't mean it, baby," Four Seven says, patting the wall, but she scoops up Carolina’s helmet and her own and shepherds Carolina down the ramp and into the bustling wide expanse of the docking bay.

"I don't have a bunkmate yet," Carolina says, striding across the deck towards the doors.

"Lucky," Four Seven replies, jogging to match her pace. Carolina doesn't slow down. Can't, really. The pilot keeps up, stays just behind her. Carolina feels weirdly on display, like the other woman is observing and calculating the best ways to take her to pieces. It's a long walk. When they finally get inside Carolina's quarters she stops in the middle of the room, turning on her heel to face the other woman, hair swinging back over her shoulder with the movement. She spreads her arms, grins bright and sharp, feels the slide and snap as her energy levels even out to something she can work with.

"Well hello," Four Seven says, laughing a bit. She tosses their helmets on the bed and moves in a deliberately paced circle around Carolina, nothing subtle in the way her gaze slides over her still-armoured body. Carolina waits, patient and calm.

"I feel like saying you're wearing too many clothes is an understatement," Four Seven says finally once she's back standing close in front of her again. She reaches out and starts popping the releases on the chest plate. Carolina has to duck to get it off over her head, and she remains caught for longer than she should in that second, eyes down and the back of her neck exposed and her breath blowing from between her lips down at her boots. The pilot sets aside the chest piece hurriedly and settles a hand on the crown of Carolina's head, running steady pressure down her skull and over the points of bone at the top of her spine before moving on to the next armour peaces.

By the time Carolina's out of her armour and standing only in her undersuit she's light-headed and her skin feels hypersensitive. Four Seven peels down the undersuit brisk and efficient, pulling the heavy material away from clavicles and breasts and knees in a steady drag. Carolina feels her nipples harden in the chill air of the ship, shivers as cooling sweat dries on the small of her back and the backs of her knees.

"Go lay down while I get mine off," Four Seven says, nodding towards the bed. Carolina lifts their helmets off the blankets, the cool metal alien and awkward against the bare skin of her inner arms. Behind her, Four Seven tosses aside the pieces of her armour with far less care than she'd shown Carolina's. Carolina sits on the edge of the bed, then pulls her legs up to curl beside her, then twists around and straightens out so she's on her back, shoulders propped on the pillow.

The pilot is all wiry muscle under her armour, tattoos covering her back and upper arms. She kicks off her briefs with her boots, and comes to stand beside the bed fully naked and smiling.

"I was thinking rope, earlier," she says. "But now I'm not so sure."

Carolina reaches out a hand and presses it to the sharp point of her hipbone, letting her head loll to the side. "If you want," she says. "But I'd rather have your hands."

Now that she’s horizontal the light-headedness has transmuted into a hazy sort of contentment, her body settling into a post-high puddle of satisfaction. She's cold, and she'd rather have the warmth of skin contact than the impersonal restraint of ropes holding her exactly where she wants to be anyway.

"I can do that," Four Seven says, catching Carolina's wandering hand and gently pressing it back down into the mattress by her head.

Carolina brings her other hand up to lie parallel, sliding a bit further down on the bed and letting her legs fall apart in clear invitation. Four Seven settles herself between her legs, hands resting over Carolina's hipbones and pressing down. Carolina feels like her spine is clicking into place, like her body is sinking down into the mattress.

"Fuck, you practically go down without me doing a thing," Four Seven says. She slides her hands up, over Carolina's stomach and pausing over her ribcage just below her breasts. Carolina inhales, feels bones press against the weight.

"Today's a good day," she says. "It's... usually not easy like this. At all."

"I can handle not easy," Four Seven says, reassuring and confident. "It's one of the reasons I figured you might need this now and then."

"Don't be right," Carolina says. "It's rude." The pilot flicks a fingernail sharply against her nipple, a warning. Carolina shivers.

"Just say stop if you want me to stop, incidentally," she says. "I figure we can work out safewords later, if this goes anywhere. Also lists, probably."

"What stunning forethought," Carolina says dryly. "Believe me, if I want you to stop, you'll stop."

Four Seven actually takes a minute to facepalm. "Ok! So we're gonna have a proper and safe negotiations talk at some point, too! Should York be there for that?"

"He'll be the only one if you don't stop bitching and do something."

"How about you put your mouth to better use than making me want to bang my head against the wall," she says. Carolina grins.

Four Seven holds herself just out of Carolina’s reach, so she has to lift her head to get her mouth on her. This also gives the pilot room to slide a hand under Carolina's head to cup the back of her skull, supporting and guiding in equal measure. Carolina works her tongue in tight circles over the other woman's clit, pressing hard, then easing back as her jaw begins to get tired. She works the flat of her tongue in broad, uncoordinated strokes, throat working to swallow saliva even as she tries to figure out how to communicate 'pull on the hair, don't just fucking play with it' without actually pulling back far enough to make words.

Four Seven starts rocking against her mouth, which makes Carolina's job easier. She focuses on providing pressure in counterpoint, letting her neck muscles go limp and resting her head entirely on Four Seven's hand. The pilot shudders through one orgasm and pulls away, carefully tipping Carolina’s head onto the pillow and scrambling back down the bed to flop squished up beside her. Carolina squirms and prods pointedly until the other woman's mostly sprawled on top of her, the warm weight pressing her into the bed a welcome grounding. The world has gone hazy at the edges, contentment seeping into her bones and her thoughts a pleasant background buzz. York's described this place like being hyper-focused, like the place he hits when he's working a particularly complex lock with bonus warm fuzzy feelings. Carolina thinks they must have very different reactions, because there's nothing focused or intense about the way she's feeling. Never has been.

"Wow, I think I'm gonna set up a fucking hug roster for you," Four Seven says after a few minutes. "Have you been deprived of physical contact-- don't answer that, actually, I'm an idiot. Come on, change of plans. Up on your knees."

Four Seven stands up on legs that Carolina's pleased to see are shaky. Carolina drags herself up and kneeling on the bed, turning and bracing her hands against the wall when instructed. Four Seven settles behind her, plastering herself up against her back, one arm coming to wrap tight across her chest and the other lower over her stomach, a hand slipping assuredly between her thighs and resting solid and warm over her, thumb tucked into the place where thigh meets groin. She rests her chin on Carolina's shoulder, breath soft against the side of her face. She holds her like that for a long minute and Carolina finds herself shaking, her body uncharacteristically out of her control and shaking like she's cold or terrified or too chemically energized, though she is none of these things at the moment. She doesn’t feel anything, really, yet her body seems insistent on rattling her bones loose in Four Seven's hold.

"It's ok, I've got you," she says. Carolina wants to say that she knows, that there's nothing happening inside her head that should correspond with this sort of reaction, but her mind seems incapable of translating thought to spoken word. "It's a lot, you're fine. Stuff's just catching up with you," she continues talking, voice even and reassuring. Carolina breathes like it's a contest, presses her hands hard against the wall and focuses on the feel of the metal under each fingertip. She lets her head fall back to rest on Four Seven's shoulder, feels the air on the exposed skin of her throat like a spotlight.

Eventually, the shaking stops. She thinks about lifting her head, but it seems like declaring something she isn't ready to say. Four Seven's hand between her legs finally moves, fingers pressing between her outer labia and spreading the wetness she finds in smooth strokes.

"You wanna come?" she asks. At first Carolina thinks it's a tease, but the way the pace of the fingers on her clit remains slow and gentle, she realizes it's a legitimate question.

"I hate you," she says. "Yes, I want to fucking come."

"I was just asking, Jesus. And I'm pretty sure you don't hate me, actually."

"Fuck you," Carolina mutters, staring up at the ceiling.

"Nah," she says, and pushes two fingers up inside Carolina with no warning. "Pretty sure it's the other way around."

Carolina's breath feels punched out of her and she almost drops her hands from the wall but remembers at the last second and tightens the muscles in her arms to keep them there.

"Good," Four Seven says. "That's good, Carolina." She scissors her fingers inside of her, adding a third after only a few movements. She presses up as deep as her fingers will go and starts working Carolina's clit with her thumb, hard pressure and a steady rhythm, hips nudging Carolina's to rock against her fingers. Carolina's mouth hangs open as she works herself furiously against the other woman's hand, bracing herself as best she can with her knees spread wide and her hands pressed high against the wall.

Her other arm is a band across Carolina's torso, holding her solidly in place even as her head thrashes, partly in pleasure and partly in frustration, on Four Seven's shoulder.

"Yeah, come on, come on, you're doing so good," Four Seven mutters. Carolina's not even sure she knows she's speaking out loud.

Finally Carolina hits a solid rhythm just where she needs it, grinds her teeth and pushes her hips hard against Four Seven’s fingers and comes apart in a rush of pleasure and satisfaction, the other woman working her through it with quick motions of her hand. She pulls her fingers out as the final waves of pleasure are still cresting, and Carolina exhales a long breath. As soon as she's come down, Four Seven's hand is back, quick fingers working her into another orgasm, sharp and bright on the heels of the first, leaving Carolina’s own legs trembling and her back arched.

"Ok, ok, ok," she says, hips twitching back. "Ok. Fuck."

Four Seven moves her hand away, holds it, hesitating and uncertain in mid air before she starts to bring it down to rest on Carolina's opposite hip. Carolina folds herself down smoothly and catches the fingers of her hand in her mouth before they touch her skin, wrapping her tongue around each digit in quick, deliberate licks. Four Seven breathes out a weak little chuckle.

"I guess that answers that question. Jesus, Carolina."

Carolina releases her hand and straightens up, leaning back against the other woman and shifting to regain a bit of her balance, inching her knees closer together on the sheets. Four Seven carefully releases her hold, hands running up Carolina's sides and urging her to shift more of her weight back against her. She runs her hands down from her shoulders like she'd done in the Pelican, gently lifting each hand from their place against the wall and settling them down at her sides, squeezing her hands quickly.

"We should lay down," she says. "Come on, cuddle time."

Carolina lets herself be moved wherever the pilot wants her, curling contentedly into the other woman's arms and tucking her face against the damp skin at her throat. Four Seven strokes her back in long, even motions while her other hand stays comfortably casual at the back of her neck.

"How're you doing?" she asks. "Also, do you have water bottles in here or am I gonna have to put clothes on?"

"I've got some," Carolina says. "Do not move or I'll kill you."

"So you're good then?"

Carolina thinks about being adrift in space, unanchored and alone. She thinks about having someone there to reach out and catch her, someone who knows how to navigate the mysterious black emptiness like it's second nature.

"Yeah," she says. "I'm good."


End file.
